when the party's over
by swishandflickwit
Summary: He was fine. He was fine, and he—just wanted it to stop. —In which Lucifer tries to convince himself that in the aftermath of his reveal, he is better off without the detective. Post-3x24. Post-reveal. 3rd in The Devil's Lucky Number series.


**AN: Title from the song of the same name by Billie Eilish. Give it a listen while you read, if you like.**

**Also, to my guest reader Devil'sMiracle17, if you're reading this I just want to say that your review on Apollo's Belt legit made me cry. My day was all the brighter for it, _this _fic notwithstanding hahaha. Thank you so much for your kind words and your cool suggestions!**

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He was fine.

He repeated it with each line of cocaine he snorted and every bottle of alcohol he consumed.

_I am fine, _he told himself over and over. Till it was a burned mantra on his tongue and was a seared brand across his brain. It echoed along the hollow of his bones, and rushed through his veins as vital as his blood.

_I am fine, _he had scored onto his heart. _I don't need _her.

"I don't _need_ anybody," he said though he could scarcely be heard over the din of music and the inebriated cacophony.

"D'you hear that?" he slurred, getting to his feet, jostling the man plastered to his side, name all ready forgotten. "I don't need anybody!"

"What's that, sweets?" The man stood with him, all blond hair and blue eyes that reminded him of the one he'd most rather forget, except his wavy tendrils were a touch too bleached, his ocean orbs a tad too dark. He trailed callused fingers down Lucifer's torso and he startled at his unbuttoned dress shirt. When had that happened? Not that it mattered.

"Get out," he deadpanned and the other man laughed as if Lucifer had told the funniest joke. He cajoled.

"Have another drink—"

"Get. out," he growled, face hard not just with anger but with restraint. He jerked from his grasp and bellowed to the crowd of anonymous, gyrating bodies in his penthouse, "All of you, _get out!_"

Wisely, someone cut the music, and it was with confusion that the sea of partygoers ebbed towards the exit. When they slunk too slow for his liking, he threw a bottle at his bar with a roar, then they couldn't leave fast enough. Even Blondie got the message.

And he was alone.

Which was _fine, _as was his soundtrack for the evening and the ones past since… well, not like he'd been counting.

(Nine days, twenty-one hours, thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds)

He was just _tense, _that's all. Would have fucked it away but no one had roused him enough to full mast.

Which was the whole bloody point, wasn't it?

He was _fine _all on his own.

As if to prove it, he palmed at his cock—right there in the middle of his living room—and thought of nothing at all.

Except the problem with thinking of nothing was it left room for _everything _to trickle in, things he had tried so hard to obliterate—like shared laughter, exasperated sighs and secret smiles, meaningful hands cosseting his cheeks as she whispered, _not to me,_ her affection-tinted gaze fading into cold fear as she dully pronounced, _it's all true._

He hadn't realized he was crying till he wrenched his hand from his flaccid sex with a sob.

He dug his palms onto his eyes till he was inundated with flashes of phosphene and the tears stopped.

He was fine. He was _fine,_ and he—just wanted it to _stop._

He stalked to his balcony, shredded wings materializing behind him.

It would be so easy, he thought, to pitch himself over the railing and _fall. _He was so very good at it, see. He fell to Hell and scorched himself a kingdom. He fell for the detective, and it had kept her _alive._

_Too easy._

So he spread his wings, and let go.

The saddest part was he wouldn't even die. He was falling in vain. Because he _couldn't _die. Because his wings would catch him on instinct. No one would know, even if they hadn't. No one would _care._

Because he was on his own, would always be_ alone._

_Lucifer?_

He gasped, eyes shooting open at Chloe's prayer, her litany fighting its way through his howling musings.

_Are you alright?_

And after days of silence, she sounded strangely of salvation. So he _finally _allowed himself the truth that he had so painfully been denying—

_I'm not, _he cried as he heaved himself upwards with his torn wings.

_I'm not fine at all._

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**AN: Yoooooo. I was trying to work on the pudding drabble but Billie's song has been on a loop in my head all day and I guess my brain decided we were too happy LOL. But in all fairness, the song is very, very angsty deckerstar material.**

**Anyway, I love Billie. Watch her in the Coachella livestream tomorrow XD**

**If you have any requests, hit me up here or on tumblr (same handle)!**

**And uh... hope you enjoyed this hahaha.**


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